


The Lord's Script

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, Cosette is cleverer than Valjean gives her credit for, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Javert's low self esteem, Kissing, M/M, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Musical Timeline, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stubborn Idiots, hand holding, pining Valjean, shoehorned actual literal lovestick Victor Hugo quotes, this is my favorite trope in the history of the world literally fight me, trying a different pov/narration than I usually do, wait no don't leave I swear it's happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: "When two souls, which have sought each other for, however long in the throng, have finally found each other …a union, fiery and pure as they themselves are… begins on earth and continues forever in heaven." -Victor HugoIt is like this: when a matched pair meet, it is usually not long before the first Touch and then the Words. There is always a stirring under the skin to reach out because humans were never designed to live in isolation. There is a pull that never wavers, quiet and calm under the surface. Denying it only makes it stronger and causes chance meetings again and again until they Touch.It is like this: even Valjean thinks the number times they have met by sheer coincidence is ridiculous and Javert is frankly sick of it.





	The Lord's Script

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Le Parole del Signore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12176598) by [Kinnabaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinnabaris/pseuds/Kinnabaris)



> It's been four days and I'm forty pages deep into the 'Alternate Universe- Soulmates' general tag and you don't quite understand how much I love soulmate aus?? You really, really don't. I'll double the amount of Valvert soulmate aus on ao3 by my damn self I really will come at me I love this trope so much and all I've seen from les mis so far in my most recent soulmate au binge have been e/R so it's time to change that! Let my old men be happy!!
> 
> I have been infected by Splintered_Star's writing style a little bit, and also just a general shoutout to her (and the discord chat!) for encouraging my bad ideas when I have Hols fic to write and when this is decidedly not Hols fic. <3
> 
> Special kudos if you can spot the irl Hugo quotes I crammed into their mouths! And, as always, if you find any embarrassing typos please, PLEASE tell me!! I let autocorrect get away with too much and don't notice it when I go to proofread/edit which leads to some awkward errors...

It happens like this:

The words, “ _Just give me the damn newspaper_ ,” scrawl themselves in a neat but blocky script on the left hip of a farm boy who is only just becoming a man in Faverolles over the course of two weeks. The boy checks them every day, his sister pestering him until they can finally be read. They trip over the word ‘newspaper’, as the word is long and they have little to practice their reading skills on, but by the time the boy can read it without stumbling in his slow way, his face lights up and he runs to his mother to show her that God had given him his Words at last.

Many, many miles away, in a dark prison cell by the sea, a much younger boy just barely old enough to understand what the words, “ _Oh, Javert_ ,” that write themselves over the days in gentle, practiced strokes over his heart mean is fretted over by his own mother. Her own Words are faded to grey on the side of her neck and she never tells him they say, but she smiles at him when he asks about them. She speaks to him of a girl that will say his Words after Touching him skin to skin, a woman that will love him and make him happy. The boy smiles his strange smile back at her, too young to doubt his mother's words.

But the world is not so simple.

The farm boy’s sister Touches hands with a young man during a festival and he speaks the words, “ _You look very lovely tonight_ ,” that her brother has seen circled around her elbow in the chunky handwriting of a peasant. The boy watches on, enraptured as their eyes light up and he finds himself tracing his own Words on his hip through his trousers, excited for the day when he will meet the one who completes him.

He grows older and does not meet anyone asking for a newspaper, although he makes certain he is in possession of one constantly, and he starts to doubt. Are his Words a question? An order? A demand? Is his soulmate cruel? The crass language makes him think so, and little by little he stops looking forward to the day when his Words are spoken. His parents pass and then his sister’s soulmate dies and leaves only the two of them to support her seven children and little time to spend thinking about his Words. When he breaks a window of a bakery for a single loaf of bread and is subsequently arrested, he thinks of seven hungry children and there is only the slightest amount of sorrow that he may never meet his soulmate.

The boy in the prison grows up and learns that love means nothing, that love is only yet another prison and sneers down at his own name on his chest. His Words could only be said in a pitying tone, and pity is the last thing he wants or needs. “ _Oh, Javert, you are not needed here_ ,” or “ _Oh, Javert, how pitiful you are_ ,” or even, “ _Oh, Javert, how could anyone want a bastard gypsy son like you?_ ”. He purchases a coat with heavy sleeves and a pair of full gloves that cover all his fingers completely at the first opportunity and refuses to touch anyone with his bare skin if he can avoid it. If others find him strange, fine. Javert does not care what others think of him. His duty to the law is his sole purpose and everything else is pushed to the wayside.

When the two meet in Toulon many years after they first received their Words, they glance at each other in mutual hatred and otherwise think no more of the other.

It works like this: not all soulmates fall in love at first sight.

When Valjean is finally released after nineteen years- a pitiful sack of his few belongings thrust into his hands and gloved hand pressed to his shirt, pinning his yellow passport there with a final glare- he does not think of soulmates or demands for newspapers. After the bishop grants him forgiveness, Valjean presses his hand to his hip over his Words and sobs. No, his soulmate deserves more than a broken man like him, and he is undeserving of the happiness a soulmate would bring him.

In Montreuil-sur-Mer, Inspector Javert is never seen without his gloves and he rarely looks at his bare chest at the pitying words inscribed there. He finds a strange sort of companionship in the mayor, who may be too forgiving and too kind, but he also wears full gloves and does not remove them to shake Javert’s hand.

“Have you met her?” the mayor asks, glancing at his covered hands. An innocent question, but one Javert has been plagued with all his life.

“I do not wish to burden myself with a _soulmate_ ,” Javert explains in a clipped tone, lips twisting in distaste on the final word. “Yourself?”

He does not know why he asks. There are gloves made without the thumb and first two fingers that would be equally acceptable for a man of the mayor’s station as to permit the first Touch, yet the mayor wears full gloves like himself that cover all five fingers. Full gloves are worn if one does not wish to seek their soulmate or if one has already found them, but the mayor has no wife. It is simple curiosity.

“Dead,” the mayor says simply, his hand resting briefly on his hip, and they speak no more of soulmates or Touches or Words.

It is oddly refreshing to have his preferences accepted so quickly. There have been, in the past, superiors and fellow officers that have frowned at Javert in disapproval for never giving his Words a chance to be said. If one did not Touch, then one would not hear their Words, and Javert refuses to hear his name spoken with pity. It is simple. He does not need a soulmate, and, if he finds himself pondering it on rare occasions, thinks that he himself would not make a very good one. On such occasions, he tells himself the thought is comforting; that he is better off alone.

Javert does not lie well.

He finds himself tightening his fists when he sees the mayor remove a glove to place a hand on the forehead of the whore. It is unnecessary; just one glance at her shaking form and it is simple to tell she is not well. His feelings are irrational, especially considering that it is immediately obvious that his touch is not a first Touch. Madeleine’s soulmate is dead and the whore does not jerk to his attention when he speaks his next words, so it should not matter. It does not matter, yet Javert finds himself jealous. That night he stares at the words, “ _Oh, Javert_ ,” written on his chest over the heart he does not have in the mirror for longer than he has in years, and then he sends his letter with his suspicions to Paris.

They pass each other more often than either know, never quite reaching out enough to Touch skin to skin. They fight in the hospital after the trial when Fantine’s corpse is still warm on the thin hospital bed, coming to blows and Javert’s glove rides up enough to expose a sliver of skin on his wrist when he attempts to pin Valjean against the wall. It rests millimeters away from Valjean’s bare neck before Valjean twists away again and neither realize how close they came to Touching.

Javert pursues him to Paris and then loses him for years. He snarls, but allows himself to be patient. Valjean will show up one day, and then he will arrest him and his fixation will finally end. Out of curiosity, he rereads Valjean’s file. At the time of his release, his Words were still black. His soulmate is not dead as Madeleine claimed, most likely, and he tries to force himself to feel further deceived. The feeling eludes him.

It is like this: everyone has Words, but a slim few will never hear them. Approximately nine out of ten people will meet their soulmate. Approximately nine out of ten people will Touch for the first time and say the Words written on the other’s skin. Soulmates are not always perfect, but they frequently lead to more fulfilling relationships. One out of fifty people have another’s Words, only for it to be a one-way bond. Their Words turn grey when their soulmate Touches the one truly intended for them. Fantine dies with her Words in elegant calligraphy grey and faded under her collarbone while the man who said them is alive and well, but no one bothers to look at her Words when she is buried.

It is like this: when a matched pair meet, it is usually not long before the first Touch and then the Words. There is always a stirring under the skin to reach out because humans were never designed to live in isolation. There is a pull that never wavers, quiet and calm under the surface. Denying it only makes it stronger and causes chance meetings again and again until they Touch.

It is like this: even Valjean thinks the number times they have met by sheer coincidence is ridiculous and Javert is frankly sick of it.

They catch glimpses of each other in the crowds of Paris several times, long after Valjean reads the words, “ _I didn't see you there; forgive me_ ,” scrawled hurriedly along the curve of Cosette’s shoulder blade when she is ten years old at the convent. For years, Valjean thinks that maybe he can live without hearing “ _Just give me the damn newspaper_ ” with only Cosette in his life, but then he will see Javert’s tall frame in the crowd and hurriedly turn the other direction, filled with a mix of feelings Valjean hardly dares untangle. Fear, certainly, but also weariness of the chase that grows with every encounter and something that Valjean is afraid to put a name to, something that has him tracing his Words without him even realizing it. He carefully chooses not to name that feeling, instead pushing the lot of them out of his mind and smiling at his daughter who knows nothing of why he runs.

When she finally asks about his own soulmate, the same day she Touches Marius for the first time and there is a pain in Valjean’s chest because she will leave him for this boy with her Words on his wrist, he tells her that his soulmate is dead and his Words are grey. The lie rolls off his tongue easily, somehow hurting both more and less than when he told Javert the same lie years ago in his mayoral office. Cosette looks at him with sorrow and he does not know what to do. This time, his hand does not pause over the spot on his hip where his Words are still as sharp and as black as the day they solidified on his skin decades ago.

This is what happens: they are both are surprised to see each other at the barricades, but feel like they shouldn't be. It is some horrible coincidence that draws them both here, because why would it be anything else?

Javert smiles at him, showing no mirth but a great deal of his gums and teeth, and Valjean looks away. Javert’s hands may be tied and his knees bruised, but Valjean is still his and his alone; his criminal to catch, his ex-convict to return to the galleys. They have claimed each other in this endless game of cat and mouse they play. Javert does not know when it started, but he tells himself it was surely Montreuil-sur-Mer and not Toulon. It must have been Montreuil-sur-Mer. Valjean was nothing to him in Toulon.

They do not speak until they are in the ally, and when they do it is in harsh growls and hissed between clenched teeth. Even now, with Valjean’s still-gloved hand on his neck and his other around the knife at his throat, they do not touch skin to skin. They can feel the other’s body head through the fabric and Valjean is almost reluctant to pull away. There is nothing new in their interactions or their words save for a weariness of the chase. It is familiar, ironically, this arguing with Javert, Valjean thinks, and he is hit by such a wave of exhaustion by the realization he nearly presses his forehead to Javert’s. It is that strange urge that stops him, that strange urge that has him folding at last and telling Javert his address with a gun pointed into the air.

Why should he want to touch Javert? They hate each other. The idea is absurd. He forces himself to forget it. There are more important things to think of right now; such as Marius and his own life.

The crack of the pistol echoes in the ally and Javert slips around a corner as Valjean feels something shift in himself. It is acceptance, it is finally giving in, he tells himself. It is not because Javert is safe, because although he would prefer as less bloodshed as possible, he half-wishes Javert dies anyway so he can live with Cosette in peace without hiding. Until she leaves him, of course, because Marius will survive this night or Valjean will die trying.

But it is only half a wish.

Valjean spares a thought for the person who will never say “ _Just give me the damn newspaper_ ” and trails a finger across the words on his hip over his clothes. Then, he turns around and pretends to have killed. The very thought of leaving Javert dead in the ally at his hand makes him ill, but he pretends. He has become good at pretending.

Valjean goes on to save one boy from the cannons, Cosette’s boy because he was not blind to their first Touch and he was the first, before even Cosette, to read her Words on the back of her shoulder.

Javert wanders the streets, wondering why he is not dead when by all rights he should be and refuses to think about the “ _Oh, Javert_ ” on his torso. His fingers betray him, rubbing the section of his coat over the center of his chest before he even knows what he is doing.

They meet again shortly, because of course they do. This is how this works; this is how it always works. Javert barely remembers anything he says and he figures it matters little in the end. There is a carriage, and then a plea for yet more time, and Javert grants him both without a second thought. Valjean is not who Javert thought he was. Valjean defies everything Javert once new. Valjean makes him doubt, makes him think about the actions he carries out in the name of justice for the first time in his life and, oddly, makes him wonder how his pitiful “ _Oh, Javert_ ” would have been said and what a first Touch feels like.

It is like this: they are both much, much older than the usual age for Touches and Words. They are under no impressions that their match is still waiting for them, and that is true. They both stopped waiting decades ago, but that does not mean they do not want it. It comes as an ache in the center of their chest; one that is bone deep and has them clenching their hands to prevent them from trembling when they dwell on the feeling for too long.

It works like this: soulmates are naturally drawn to each other. It only makes sense that one half would want the other to live.

So it is that Valjean finds himself walking towards the Seine without any specific reason an hour after Javert lies to him for the first time in his life. Even that night on the bridge they do not touch skin to skin. Valjean’s gloved hand on Javert’s elbow, although he has the strangest urge to take Javert’s wrist in bare fingers instead, and soft-spoken but solid words are what saves Javert. Javert steps down, submitting himself, and does not die. Valjean leads an unresisting Javert to an address Javert gives freely with the small room and few possessions and finds himself asking without giving his mouth permission to even form the words,

“May I visit tomorrow?”

The question throws both of them, and Javert nods his consent because what else is there to do when faced with such a stubborn man?

It works like this: when given enough time, no pair can resist the pull forever. Eventually, something must give. Even the most stubborn of men must fold.

Valjean is not sure who is surprised more when he finds himself on Javert’s doorstep the next morning as promised.

“Good morning,” he says, because he does not know what else to say.

Javert hesitates, then says, “I will not arrest you.”

It is by far the most awkward conversation they have ever had.

Yet Valjean’s feet find their way to Javert’s doorstep again and again, day after day, and while Javert’s feet lead him to the river time and time again he no longer wishes to die as much as he did that night. Neither of them know how to be a friend. Javert snaps at him so Valjean flinches away and, while a grimace flashes over his features, Javert never apologizes. Every day Javert tells him that he will not arrest Valjean, yet it is almost a month of near daily meetings until Valjean believes it.

Somehow, it is enough.

It works like this: even if soulmates never Touch or say the Words on the other’s skin, they are still soulmates. They are stronger together and there is a reason they have been paired.

They manage.

It is strange, but not as strange as either expected, to go from enemies to something approaching friends. They have known each other for decades and know what subjects are sore points and where to press to bring the other to anger. It takes time, but time is something they both have now. There are glances to each other's gloved hands that they willingly ignore in themselves and each other. Simple curiosity; nothing more.

They circle each other slowly, moving from awkward, stilted conversations to ones that flow much more naturally. They take walks in the public gardens and speak of law and forgiveness and God and learn each other's ways. Javert invites himself into Valjean’s home like he belongs there after only a few times of meeting for tea and Valjean cannot find it in himself to protest. It feels right.

“I do not like this case I have been assigned,” Javert complains, many months after the rebellion. Outside, the air is crisp and Javert’s coat and scarf hang by the door. “The crime is assault, but I believe it to be self-defense. I cannot prove it was self-defense. There may be no choice but to condemn an innocent woman.” He scowls at Valjean. “You are a bad influence on me.”

There is no bite to the words anymore and Valjean only smiles at him.

“This is not the only case that has stumped me. I cannot decide what choice to make and then my hand is forced anyway.” Javert frowns more severely at nothing and the smile is gone from Valjean’s face. “I dislike it. I cannot bend the law for one man and then use it to strike another when the circumstances are fundamentally the same.” He huffs, irritated.

Valjean stays silent for Javert is not yet done. The Inspector paces, hands behind his back and lips forming words that Valjean can only hear as a low murmur. At last, he stops and looks straight at Valjean.

“I am thinking of… retiring.”

Valjean blinks. “Are you certain?”

There is an odd twist to Javert’s lips, one that can almost be called a smile. “No. I had not planned on retiring so early. I admit I most likely do not have enough savings to live on for as many years as I may require.” He laughs; a short, silent breath of air puffed through his nostrils that had taken Valjean far too long to recognize for laughter. “To be honest with you, Valjean, I thought I would have been killed in the line of duty by now.”

“Do not say those things,” Valjean protests. Something in him always twists at the mention of Javert’s death, however casual the remark may be.

“I told you I was being honest,” Javert replies, an eyebrow raised in challenge. “As it is, I no longer have the same enthusiasm for my work that I once did. I am getting too old for the chase and I have never liked paperwork.”

“You could always stay here with me,” Valjean offers thoughtlessly.

Javert stares at him and Valjean thinks back to exactly what he is offering. He flushes and looks away when he realizes he is all but inviting Javert to share the same bed with him.

“Cosette is with Pontmercy and her things have been moved out,” he adds quickly. “It would be no trouble, and you are here all the time anyway…”

Oh, and that _is_ a thought. Valjean has not realized how close they were circling now; how close they must be for Valjean to open his home so freely to the man who had hunted him for decades. He stares into his teacup.

It is like this: when one has denied themselves something for so long, one can forget what it is like to have it. They have fought the pull between them for so many years that they do not know how to let it guide them.

“That could… be acceptable,” Javert says awkwardly. “I would not ask for you to provide for all of my board—”

“Of course,” Valjean cuts him off before he can get into the exact amounts. Javert would never settle for letting Valjean pay for everything even though Valjean would be happy to do so. “Whenever you are ready. I will ask for the room to be kept open for you.”

This is how it works: soulmates are most comfortable when in physical proximity to each other; and this is especially true for a pair who have not yet had their first Touch. There is a certain anxiousness, an itch, that lessens when they are close. It is why they visit each other nearly every day; it is why they find themselves walking closer to one another than strictly necessary in the gardens.

Valjean just tells himself to be glad that Javert would be willing to endure his company. He has been lonely since Cosette left, and she and Javert are his only two companions. It is strange how close they have become, how easily their past ceased to define them to each other, but Valjean will not turn down the gift of a friend.

Javert moves into Cosette’s old room and Valjean is not surprised by how pitifully few belongings he has. In that way, they are the same. They are both simple men with simple needs. Valjean learns that Javert is rarely still, hates mornings, and, without police work to distract him, prone to starting arguments simply for the sake of arguing. Javert learns that Valjean is more quiet than Madeleine and occasionally needs reminders that he has no need to live to extreme simplicity. They both eventually cease wearing their gloves around each other, save for when it is especially cold, because they each know how the other feels about finding their soulmate and they are not overly tactile people anyway.

“Your Words,” Javert begins once out of nowhere. He cannot help himself; he has been curious ever since he learned Madeleine was Valjean. “Are they still black?”

Valjean blinks, his hand falling to his hip without his notice. “Why do you ask?”

“Madeleine said his soulmate was dead, but your Words were still black when you left Toulon,” Javert says. “I am only curious. My Words have yet to fade.”

“Ah, yes, that was a lie,” Valjean admits, tracing his Words over his clothes. “Mine have never faded. Sometimes I wonder if my soulmate hates me for avoiding her, although I am rarely in a situation where my Words would make sense.”

He has, in fact, avoided holding newspapers in public since he left Toulon. Some people devote their entire profession to something mentioned in their Words, but he did the opposite.

Javert scoffs. “Doubtful. She has most likely moved on, found someone without Words or some other such thing, or is simply happier alone like we are.”

He does not mention that he thinks it is absurd that Valjean has avoided the Touch for so long. Now that they are friends, Javert can see only good in him. Valjean would be a good soulmate and anyone would be lucky to have him. He is unafraid to love and certainly would be better at it than Javert would.

Valjean makes a humming sound and they speak no more of it that day.

The conversation sticks in his mind and Valjean draws comfort from Javert’s words. Javert said that they were both happier alone, but that is untrue. He is happier with Javert with him, even if they are not soulmates. Of course, Javert would probably laugh at him if he ever mentioned it, so he never does.

The first day Valjean brings Javert to properly meet Cosette, he also meets Marius.

“You,” Javert says immediately in a disapproving growl. “You owe me two pistols.”

“But, you,” Marius stutters. “He killed you!”

“That is absurd,” Javert responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Clearly, I am not dead."

“I take it you have met?” Cosette asks with a curious look in her eye.

“Yes,” Marius says.

“Unfortunately,” Javert says at the same moment.

The day does not go as planned and Javert reveals all Valjean’s secrets, acting as Valjean’s defender even against himself. His past is laid out cleanly when it becomes clear that Cosette does not even know his true name is Jean Valjean. Javert spares him looks of irritated exasperation several times in his explanations, hardly letting Valjean himself get a word in. Javert does not spare words at the best of times, and by the time they leave Valjean knows exactly how highly Javert regards him now and cannot help but look away to hide his reddened face.

“You flatter me,” Valjean says once they leave. “I am not this Saint you make me out to be.”

“You think too little of yourself,” Javert growls, his arms crossed over his chest. “It is no sin to take pride in one’s accomplishments.”

“But Javert—”

“Damn it, Valjean,” Javert snaps, “you have more than served your sentence for your crimes; I cannot stand here while you further punish yourself when you are a good man.”

It is not the first time Javert swears in front of him, but it is the first time Valjean has wished that his Words were different. If he could, he would replace “ _Just give me the damn newspaper_ ” with “ _Damn it, Valjean_ ” in a heartbeat. He would take anything Javert says over the Words he has on his skin.

It works like this: one’s Words are absolute. They never change once they appear unless they fade to grey. It is unknown how God knows just what Words to print on someone’s skin years before the Words are said; He simply knows. To avoid the first Touch as to avoid hearing one’s Words is not considered an act against God, as surely He would have anticipated that.

However, to wish you had the Words of another, to desire someone who’s Words are not on your skin, to desire one who is not made for you- that is a rejection of God’s gift of a soulmate.

Valjean touches the back of Javert’s elbow, layers upon layers of clothing separating them, and Javert calms with a loud huff. He pretends he does not wish to Touch him. Javert hates reading and has never once shown an interest in reading the newspaper himself when Valjean is there to paraphrase for him.

“I will try,” Valjean says. He will try not to desire Javert, and he will try to understand how Javert does not see him as the broken man he surely is.

“See that you do,” Javert says.

It does not leave his mind and he becomes extremely mindful of the proximity of his bare hands and Javert’s when they are both at home. He is both afraid and eager to touch him, to see if it would be a first Touch. Same-gender soulmates are not unheard of, but they are not as common as opposite-gender soulmates. To desire another man, one who is not his soulmate, is not acceptable in the least.

“What do you imagine a first Touch feels like?” Valjean finds himself asking one night. They have been silent for hours; Valjean reading and Javert lost in thought, and the question breaks the comfortable quiet they had settled into. Javert’s restless fingers still on his thigh.

“I have never thought about it,” Javert says before Valjean can take back his words. “I would be a poor soulmate.”

Valjean wants to argue that, but he is afraid if he did then Javert would know precisely what feelings Valjean harbors towards him. Instead, he says, “Cosette told me it felt like being struck by lightning.”

Javert snorts. “All the more reason to avoid it. That certainly does not sound pleasant.”

“Javert,” Valjean chastises him lightly. “As Cosette has never actually been struck by lightning, I doubt it is like what you are imagining.”

“Do you wish to find her, then?” Javert asks, glancing to Valjean’s hands out of habit even though Valjean is not wearing gloves. “Your Words are black; your soulmate is still alive.”

Valjean hesitates. Does he wish to find his soulmate? He has Javert and Cosette; does he dare want more than this?

“I would not take offense,” Javert adds dryly. The memory of Valjean’s bare hand on the whore’s- Fantine, he has been corrected numerous times- forehead flashes in Javert’s mind. Perhaps he would take offense, but Javert has no claim over Valjean. He never had such a claim to begin with.

“No,” Valjean decides. He gives Javert a small smile. “I would not mind it, but I have no desire to go out of my way to search. I am comfortable as I am and I do not wish to disrupt her life. We have lived apart this long, after all. Have you ever considered searching?”

“Never,” Javert replies immediately. “I have no wish to hear my Words.”

Valjean nods and accepts Javert’s decision easily, as he always has. He burns with the desire to know what Words are written on Javert and what he so desperately does not want to hear. Words are extremely private things, known only to the individual and their immediate family and perhaps a trusted friend if they are that close. To ask Javert what his Words are would be inappropriate at best and would most likely lead to anger.

Still, Valjean wears his gloves less and buys a pair that do not cover the first two fingers and allow for Touch. If he does meet his soulmate, then perhaps his fixation on Javert will fade. He continues to avoid holding newspapers in public because he cannot help but hope Javert is his, even if Javert will not touch him. He never dares touch Javert when they have both removed their gloves. Javert has no wish to find his soulmate, even in Valjean, so he must respect that.

Javert does not know Valjean’s words, as they are not a part of his official record other than their color and he never bothered to remember the Words of any of the prisoners in Toulon that he did see. To read them would be another level of invasion that he was not comfortable with. It was not his business to know other people's Words and he did not care about them. He is curious about what Valjean’s are, but Valjean never volunteers even an inkling of information about them.

The first time Valjean slips on the partial gloves before they go out, Javert cannot help but stare and hate them. It is irrational, as it was before, but the instinct is immediate. He makes a point to avoid looking at Valjean’s hands after that.

It is like this: approximately nineteen out of twenty people will have Words written on their skin. Approximately one out of fifty people will have one-sided Words. Approximately nine out of ten people will Touch for the first time and shortly after speak the Words on the other’s skin. Approximately nine out of ten people will know their soulmate.

It is simple: even the most stubborn of men must fold and even the most stubborn of men submit to God. There are no exceptions.

It has been just over a year since Javert was escorted off the bridge. A heatwave is sweeping through Paris and Valjean has declared it too warm to wear a coat when they are not going anywhere and Javert cannot stop staring at the thin white cloth that is constantly sticking to his arms with sweat. It hot and it is just barely midday for the third day in a row. Both have forgone cravats, Javert with a great deal more muttering and hesitance as his shirt is white and if it becomes damp than his Words become noticeable on his chest, but even he must submit to the weather. Javert had finally pushed up his sleeves and has not even thought of wearing his gloves indoors in days.

“When will this damn endless heat end?” Javert asks. They have been sitting across the table from each other for most of the day, drinking cups of lukewarm water and eating fruit Valjean had insisted on buying at the market. The unusual heat and humidity has more than earned Javert’s ire. He flicks a sweaty strand of hair away from his face in disgust.

Valjean flips through the newspaper, eyes scanning the pages. They stop in the middle of the page in a place Javert knows weather predictions are not located.

“Valjean, that is not the weather,” Javert observes dryly.

“I know, but listen to this, they—”

“Just give me the damn newspaper,” Javert growls impatiently, snatching the paper away from Valjean and grazing their bare hands in the process.

It is already so warm in the room that it takes Javert a moment to notice a different kind of warmness blooming in his chest, unfurling like one of Valjean’s flowers under his ribs. It feels utterly right in a way Javert has never known. His eyes snap to Valjean’s in a panic.

“Oh,” Valjean says softly, reverently, “Javert.”

His Words burn on his chest. There is no trace of pity or scorn in those words like Javert had always imagined there would be. Instead, they are said like a gift with a certain amount of breathlessness that sends a shock through his spine. Lightning, Cosette had reportedly said. Javert cannot fault her in her description.

They stare at each other in silence.

Valjean is his soulmate. Valjean the convict, Valjean the false-mayor, Valjean his friend, is his _soulmate_. They have met so many times over so many years—

Javert starts to laugh. It is not a natural sound and Javert usually stifles it into silence, but he cannot help himself. A harsh, gravely sound bubbles out of his throat and he sees Valjean’s expression fade, but he cannot stop himself from laughing.

“This—” he tries, but his laugh persists. He quells it with an effort. “This answers everything! I cannot believe I did not see it before!”

“Javert?” Valjean asks with no small amount of anxiety in his voice.

“Why else did we keep meeting?” Javert says. He cannot stop smiling and it is frankly absurd how giddy he is. “How else did we slip into friendship so easily?”

“I did notice that, yes,” Valjean answers, a hesitant, helpless smile on his face.

“I should have recognized the signs. They were so obvious!” The newspaper lies nearly forgotten on the table. “The barricades, Valjean! Even Montreuil-sur-Mer! I cannot count how many times I thought I saw you in the streets.” He laughs again, this time managing to keep himself near silent as he usually does.

“You are not upset?” Valjean asks.

“Why on earth would I be upset?"

“You once said you never wished to hear your Words.”

That does more to silence his laughter than any attempt Javert has made thus far.

“I thought my words would be said with pity; not like, like…” Javert has no words for how Valjean said them. He would like to hear them said that way again. Looking away, he continues. “It never occurred to me that I would be wanted. I expected to hear ‘ _Oh, Javert’_ ,” he twists his Words into something ugly and cruel, filled with scorn and dismissal. “I am aware I am not nice nor have any other particularly redeeming qualities; I never have.”

“Javert—” Valjean begins, and Javert will never know how he manages to fit so much care into one word.

“Valjean,” Javert presses on, “if you do not wish to have me, I will understand—”

“Of course I will have you!” Valjean says simply, like it is the easiest decision in the world. “I have wanted you for months, even without knowing that we are…” He hesitates to speak the word and gestures between them with a hand instead.

“You want me?” Javert asks incredulously. He has never been wanted before; he has never imagined why anyone would want him.

“I have always wanted whoever was to say, ‘ _Just give me the damn newspaper,’_ and I have also wanted… just you.” He looks down at his hands, away from Javert’s face, face reddening. “I am… very glad to find that you are both.”

“Those are horrible Words,” Javert mutters, but does not apologize for them. His own face is warming and making the heat unbearable.

He reaches for the abandoned newspaper and flips it open, telling himself he is not hiding behind the pages from Valjean. It is too much to take in; he needs a buffer to give himself a moment to control himself. Never in his life, save for perhaps when he was a very young boy, did he expect his soulmate to want him. It is clear Valjean does want him- just this past year of friendship is evidence of that. Never in his life has he been so absurdly happy. He scans the pages for quite a few moments longer than necessary to find the weather section. Valjean’s eyes never leave him, but he does not speak.

“Here- they say that there should only be one more day of this damned heat,” he reports at last, then tosses the paper aside feeling sufficiently recovered.

Valjean is trying to snuff a smile and cannot seem to look away from Javert. Javert only rolls his eyes and attempts to subdue his own smile. He fails.

“Are you as disgustingly estatic as I am right now?” he asks, trying to sound irritated but failing magnificently and ending up sounding fond instead.

That startles a full smile out of Valjean as well as a soft laugh. Javert has never heard him laugh like that before.

“Yes, I believe I am,” Valjean replies, resting a hand lightly on top of Javert’s bare wrist. It is nothing like the magnitude of a first Touch, but the contact still warms him and he is helpless to prevent his lips from turning upwards at the corners.

They stay like that for several minutes before it becomes too hot to touch skin to skin anymore. Valjean never wants to draw away, but all too soon Javert is rising and cursing the temperature again. Cosette had smiled for hours after hearing her Words from Marius and Valjean is finding himself no different. He is unable to keep his eyes from Javert for very long and constantly reaches out to touch him. About half of the time, Javert reaches back. It is more than enough.

The next day, he is still absurdly cheerful and greets a half-awake Javert with a kiss to the temple. Javert blinks rapidly, startled, but says nothing. About halfway through his second cup of coffee he finally looks up at Valjean.

“You kissed me,” he says. It is an observation more than anything else.

“Yes,” Valjean agrees.

“Will you be doing that?”

“If you do not mind it, yes.”

“Ah,” Javert says, still not completely awake. “Why?” he asks a few moments later.

“I want to,” Valjean answers, smoothing jam onto his toast.

Javert blinks, as if not quite comprehending why Valjean wants to show him affection. “You do not wish to remain as only friends?”

Valjean drops his butter knife with a clatter.

It is like this: although people of the same gender are known to be soulmates, it is still not acceptable for them to be romantic; at least to the eyes of the public. They are expected to be friends, to guide and support one another, but no more than that.

Valjean, in his Touch-induced happiness, had forgotten.

“No, being just friends is fine,” he says, stumbling over his words. “I will not do it again.”

Javert studies him for long moments, but does not speak. After several minutes of silence, where Valjean decides he is no longer hungry and sets down his toast, Javert drains the rest of his coffee and huffs.

“Eat your breakfast, Valjean” Javert tells him, then looks upward and mutters something suspiciously like a complaint against the early hour.

Valjean picks up his toast and nibbles at it half-heatedly.

“I never expected to find my soulmate and I certainly did not expect them to be happy to have me,” Javert starts out bluntly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter as always. “I have no romantic delusions or expectations regarding what should happen now. I have been content this past year as simply friends.”

Valjean cannot help the way he tenses and draws back, as if anticipating a blow.

“Let me finish,” Javert huffs, clearly noting his reaction. “I only wish to know what to expect. Like I have said: I have no expectations. As long as we remain as we have been in public, I would be… amiable to whatever such romantic notions you so obviously carry.”

“I do not want to make you uncomfortable,” Valjean says.

“You will know if I am made uncomfortable,” Javert responds. “When have I not made it clear when I am unhappy? That will not change now. As far as I am concerned, nothing has changed between us, save for touching. I do not find you unattractive, although I have no experience in these matters.”

Valjean has the decency to flush and look away. They already know each other well; there is no need to walk so hesitantly around him. Javert is all but inviting Valjean to court him with remarks like that.

“I have not thought any further than kissing you,” Valjean admits, flushing even darker. “I have wanted to kiss you for weeks; perhaps months.”

“I cannot understand why,” Javert mutters, flushing himself now. To Valjean, he says, “You have my permission; not like you needed it.”

Valjean beams at him and Javert rolls his eyes. The action is quickly becoming one of fondness.

“You will not mind?” Valjean asks, just to make certain. “Even though we are both men?”

“No, I will not mind.” Javert answers. “What does our sex matter? We are soulmates; are we not entitled to this? It is no one’s business but ours.”

It is like this: although society scorns same-gender soulmates, the ratio of platonic to non-platonic soulmates is universal across all demographics. It is fact that refuses acknowledgment. The church, certainly, would not approve, but there is nothing unlawful about it. Ultimately, it is up to the pair themselves, but it is an interesting fact that most choose to hide the true nature of their relationship, pressured by society.

However, Valjean knows none of this and smiles across the breakfast table at Javert, feeling unnaturally lucky, until the man scowls and tells him to stop looking like such a fool.

He is free with his touches now, although it takes weeks to break the habit of avoiding touch that has built up over the decades. Javert starts at every single one, but never once does he pull away. It takes longer for Javert to start reaching back with hesitant hands, but Valjean smiles at him when he does.

It takes Cosette approximately one week to notice her father’s change in mood and she gives him one more to tell her what changed to cause it.

“Papa,” she starts, like she always does, “you are happy.”

It has been two weeks and he has told her nothing and she simply cannot contain her curiosity any longer.

“Of course I am. I am with you,” he answers easily.

“Did you find your soulmate?” she asks.

Valjean's sputters and spills tea down the front of his coat.

“Pardon me,” he says, dabbing at the stains with his handkerchief. “You know how clumsy I can be.”

The handkerchief does not have an embroidered ‘ _U.F._ ’ in the corner, nor does it have ‘ _J.V._ ’ like the more recent ones she has given him. No; this handkerchief simply has a ‘ _J._ ’ because Javert refuses to tell Cosette what his given name is or even his initial.

Later, Javert will call him a sentimental old man for carrying Javert’s handkerchiefs around instead of his own, but he never asks for his own handkerchiefs back.

“Papa, you told me your Words were grey,” Cosette says, carefully inflicting no judgment or disappointment in her voice.

“Ah,” Valjean says, caught in another one of his own lies. “I never intended to find them. It was easier if I pretended they were dead.”

“Papa,” she chides him. Her eyes go to the handkerchief where her father is absently rubbing the embroidered corner in between his fingers. “You have found them then? Now?”

“Yes,” he answers. He cannot stop the smile that comes to his face.

“Is it Javert?” she asks. He cannot fool her. The handkerchief was simply the last piece of evidence she needed to be certain.

“Yes,” Valjean answers again, quieter, ducking away and flushing. “Neither of us knew until recently. We did not seek each other out. It was only by accident that we learned.”

“You wanted it to be him,” Cosette says, and he cannot deny her. “You did not hide it very well, Papa. You stare at him and speak of him constantly.”

“Yes, well,” Valjean says, flushing and looking down at his hands. “I cannot help myself.”

Cosette wants to ask him if he is happy with him, if Javert loves him as much as her Papa so obviously loves him, how they have managed to go decades without knowing yet constantly seeing each other.

“How is Marius?” Valjean asks quickly before she can ask any of those questions.

Cosette gives him a look that tells him she knows he is changing the subject, but launches into a new conversation anyway.

It is a long time before her suspicions are confirmed and they slip up their platonic facade in front of her. They bicker constantly, but what her father has not noticed about himself is that he often touches Javert to make a point in their arguments. Javert obviously does not mind, often egging him on with weak insults that only annoy instead of injure, eyes alive with joy. No platonic couple would get so caught up in their own squabbles as to forget their audience and leave their hands on each other for long minutes at a time and have such affection in their expressions. Once, she catches Javert squeezing her father’s hand and his face had softened from its usual sternness for a short moment. Later, she brushes her own gloved hand over Javert’s elbow in passing and gives him a knowing look, and for some reason he looks satisfied instead of embarrassed or startled like she predicted. She decides she will never quite understand Javert.

It takes even longer for Valjean to gather the courage to ask if he may kiss Javert on the lips back in their own home, but Javert agrees easily and even touches a hand to his elbow to steady him. It is the most wondrous thing he has ever done. Javert’s lips are rough, but they send sparks scattering across his skin and fill his chest with warmth; just as when they had first Touched.

“Oh, Javert,” he says in a breath when they part, only realizing he has said Javert’s Words again after they leave his mouth.

“You took your time in asking,” Javert says, almost like a purr. He is insufferable when satisfied. “I have been waiting.”

“Oh,” he says again, smiling helplessly at him.

There are a great many more kisses after that.

Much later, behind closed doors, they peel away the layers of fabric that hide their Words from each other. Valjean spends long moments tracing the two words in his own handwriting that are written over Javert’s heart and Javert presses his lips to Valjean’s left hip and denies that he is smiling when he kisses the words “ _damn newspaper_ ”. The touches send blooms of warmth across their skin and draw out soft vows that will never be repeated in the light of day, murmurs of love and care in between soft gasps.

It happens like this: no one knows why the Lord writes Words on people’s skin to guide them to their soulmate or how He knows just what to write. No one knows why only nineteen out of twenty people receive words and why one out of fifty have words that only go in one direction. No one knows why the first Touch is important or how people are paired.

It is like this:

They wake beside each other, hands curled over each other’s Words and neither have felt so perfectly content.

“Are you happy, Javert?” Valjean asks when it is clear they have both awoken. They have nowhere to be; they can lay about in bed for an extra hour or so if they wish.

Javert huffs, as if annoyed, but he holds Valjean a little tighter. “I should like to kneel before you as I would before a divinity; that is how happy you have made me.”

The words are spoken soft with sleep and so quietly Valjean would not have heard him if they had not been so close. He doubts Javert will ever say such a thing again.

“I am no Saint; you have no need to kneel before me,” Valjean says. “I am yours; my whole soul is yours.”

Javert says nothing and they breathe in perfect synchronization.

It is like this:

They never cease their arguing and more than once Javert storms out into the street, exasperated by Valjean’s stubbornness; but they are never apart for long. Javert will return, subdued, an hour or so later and Valjean will welcome him with kisses and does not mind that Javert never apologizes with words. They spend their days in each other’s company and their nights in each other’s arms, never out of reach as they had been for so many years.

It is like this:

When Valjean’s soul slips away in the night many years later, not even Cosette nor her children can bring Javert comfort. His face is drawn and pale despite not catching the illness Valjean had and being the younger of them.

Javert is found cold and still two days later in his bed, chasing Valjean even in death.

It is like this:

When the Lord assigns soulmates, they are not constrained to the mortal plane.

Javert finds that Heaven is much like Earth in appearance; save for he is not hungry or cold and he is young again without the pain in his bones that had bothered him for years. He finds himself standing outside of what looks to be their shared home in mid spring, although he knows full well they had died in the middle of winter. It is easy to find Valjean, who is predictably reading the newspaper and drinking his morning tea as not even death can break him from his habits. The paper blocks his face from view, preventing Javert from seeing what Valjean looks like no longer old and ill.

Javert cannot help himself; he takes the newspaper from Valjean with a sudden motion.

“Just give me the damn newspaper,” he says, forcing himself to sound suitably irritated.

Valjean looks up, surprised, and immediately he smiles. His hair is still white and full, but his eyes are bright and there are far fewer lines on his face. It is quite a change from the sunken, pale form Javert had become accustomed to seeing during his illness and Javert cannot think him to be anything but beautiful now. Valjean takes his spare hand in both of his and kisses the knuckles.

“Oh, Javert,” he says, beaming at him with his voice full of love. “I am so glad you are here.”

Javert’s Words burn over the heart he now knows he has and he allows himself to smile back.


End file.
